Kalen, drenched in blood, entered through the opening where Begryn was supposed to be, not without first taking little Drako, who wouldn’t stop crying, and handing him over to Galfrido.

  Inside, he saw a chamber of horror, filled with jars containing fetuses, shrunken heads, entrails, and, at the back, Begryn tied against the wall, completely naked. At first glance, she didn’t seem badly hurt. He approached the elf, freed her, and took her in his arms, covering her with a blanket that had been lying nearby.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him, trying to force a smile. She looked very weak.

  “And Drako?” was the first thing she asked him.

  “He’s safe, with Galfrido.”

  “I can’t believe you guys did it,” she said, hugging him even tighter. “Did you even kill their leader?”

  “Galfrido tore his head off, though he got a nice keepsake across his face.” He paused briefly. “Did they torture you? Did they do anything to you?”

  “No… except that damned witch drained quite a lot of my blood and stored it in a jar. Who knows what she wanted with it. Kalen, it was the witch Baba Yaga…”

  “I know… thanks to Leiorus, I was able to defeat her.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “No, she escaped.”

  The elf nodded. “The legends say she can’t be killed.”

  “Well… you’ll see her blood splattered across the rocks. If it bleeds, it can die.”

  “Kalen, I don’t want to leave naked. Would you bring me my clothes?”

  “Of course, Begryn.”

  After several minutes, they were all finally ready to leave, covered in filth, dried blood, and carrying several wounds. Galfrido’s cheek was torn open, while Kalen limped on one leg. Ertai hadn’t come out unscathed either, his hand now bandaged. The only one who seemed completely unharmed was Anthos who, despite fighting off a few osgor, had suffered no injuries.

  The captive missing a leg had met a gruesome end, struck down by a club while trying to crawl away.

  “What a strange way you have of fighting, my friend,” said Galfrido, approaching the guide. “I promise not to underestimate that toothpick you carry anymore.”

  Anthos let out a laugh. “And you, Ertai… you didn’t do half bad.”

  “You saved me… I owed you one.”

  The mystery around the treasure hunter only grew. How could someone be so skilled in combat, and at the same time have studied druidic arts, and also be a treasure hunter at such a young age? And all of this packed into the thirty or thirty-five years of life he seemed to have lived.

  They walked for several more hours through a tunnel that gradually widened, once again surrounded by a landscape of stalactites and stalagmites. From time to time, they could see the tracks of the osgor, who came and went as they pleased in those caverns. What had drawn them there was a question that gnawed at their minds. Their reflections were only interrupted by muscle pain and the wounds they had received. They had fought a hard battle, a good battle, and they had managed to win.

  At one point, they decided to stop and rest a few minutes, to recover from their wounds and exhaustion. After a few more hours of silent walking—which felt like days—they finally saw sunlight. It was the first time they had seen it in quite a while, since even before entering the tunnels through the smugglers’ gate, the sun had already been hidden behind a thick layer of clouds.

  “Well, looks like the worst is over,” said Ertai with a smile.

  “Don’t tempt fate, my friend,” replied Galfrido, giving him a light tap on the shoulder.

  “Either way, we’re finally out of this shitty place,” added Anthos, pointing to the exit.

  At last, they reached the region of Trabarioth. Anthos breathed in the fresh evening air of a sunny day at the foot of the mountains. The fine flakes of snow carried by the evening breeze struck their faces with tiny bursts of cold. Begryn bundled Drako up with extra care, and thanks to the battle—and to the poor people captured by the osgor, fallen leaf, dead leaf—they had managed to better equip themselves for the winter chill.

  The ground sloped downward before them, revealing how the towering colossi of the Ramei Mountains behind slowly gave way to lower peaks and then to gentler, more passable hills. The orange light against the gray and white gave the impression they were gazing upon a land of silver. In the distance, farther to the northeast, they could make out the distinctive gleam of a vast lake.

  “What comes next, Anthos? Where are we going?” asked Begryn, the cold in her voice growing ever more evident.

  “We’ll continue along the edge of Lake Kunath, following that small stream.” He pointed to a watercourse that flowed into the great lake they could glimpse down the mountainside. “Tonight, we’ll spend the night in one of those pine groves by the stream. There’s no danger in this area...”

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Galfrido, pulling a sarcastic grimace with one raised brow. “Tell that to those poor merchants over there.”

  “Well, there shouldn’t be any danger now,” Ertai added. “We killed all the osgor, didn’t we?”

  “Baba Yaga escaped,” Kalen added darkly. Though they had defeated the mythical witch, he carried a lingering weight in his chest for not being able to finish her.

  “She won’t be a problem for now. She was badly wounded...” The elf tucked the baby in even tighter. “But I’d like us to rest a little and spend the night in a more dignified way than the nights before.”

  “That’s the spirit, sister.” Galfrido gave her a heavy slap on the back, which earned him a murderous glare from Begryn. “Sorry...”

  They moved on with a lighter step, glad to finally breathe the outside air. The grove Anthos had pointed out was only a few kilometers away, down a descending slope that made the walk easier. Even so, they had to stop from time to time and carefully watch the path. It was simpler now, but still steep and rocky despite the snow.

  At last, they reached one of the small pine groves by the stream, just a few kilometers from Lake Kunath. The full moon peeked through the clouds forming in the mountains behind them, bathing the valley almost entirely in its light. The scent of herbs filled the travelers’ nostrils.

  Galfrido went to gather firewood, while Ertai prepared the resting place. kalen unsheathed Eldora and began oiling her, as he always did religiously after battle. Though it was not a weapon that could be easily broken—it was forged of nearly unbreakable metal—the discipline instilled in him by the Order of Reidos urged him to care for his gear after every fight.

  “We could eat something from what we have,” said Begryn. “There are still some legumes left, but I think we’d regain more strength if we got some meat.”

  “At this hour, in the dark, I suppose that will be difficult,” Anthos added.

  “No one said it would be easy.” The elf smiled, wrapping little Drako tighter and handing him over to Galfrido. “Besides, the moon is perfect for hunting.”

  “I thought you elves didn’t eat meat,” said Ertai as he fanned the sparks into flame.

  “Forest elves don’t eat meat. Water elves do. I’m a half-blood, so my diet is varied. Still, I wasn’t going to bring back meat for myself… I was going to do it thinking of you...” “And also thinking of Drako,” she said to herself.

  Kalen smiled, and through his blond hair still stained red from battle, he exchanged a glance with the elf as she disappeared into the darkness, bow in hand.

  Tracking at that hour of the night was an impossible task for an ordinary person. It could even prove difficult for a forest elf. For Begryn, however, it was simple and natural. She had spent many years of her life hunting at night, pursuing creatures that did not wish to be found and who masked their trail with masterful skill. In this case, the small deer marked the path perfectly. A few tracks here, some broken branches there… very simple. In the moonlight, the elf’s eyes gleamed with a bluish glow, casting a shadowy air over her face, hidden beneath a dark hood, violet in shade but easily mistaken for black.

  “Und weirel, itha, byrm ‘shagruilith-manek, Mistilanya…” she said, gazing at the enormous white, gleaming sphere in the sky. It was a kind of offering of thanks for the light granted for the hunt.

  The rite of giving thanks to the goddess of the moon, the stars, and death normally lasted several hours and was performed in specific places. But this was not a sacred hunt, like the ones she undertook with the Sharpshooters. This was a simple hunt for food.

  She advanced with the stealth of a shadow through the pines scattered haphazardly over the uneven ground, until she spotted the small deer in a clearing. The creature was trying to find some grass at the base of a few trees. It was not even aware of the death that stalked it.

  The moon’s whitish glow reflected off the snow that still covered much of the ground, faintly illuminating the place, aided by the rays filtering through the branches of the trees rising there. Begryn inhaled and exhaled calmly, emptying her lungs almost completely. Her heartbeat slowed to a near halt, and her eyes narrowed into slits, leaving only a faint crack of bluish light.

  She drew back her bowstring, the arrow extended, ready to loose—when the small deer turned its head and looked straight in her direction.

  The elf’s eyes widened, and almost immediately she relaxed the string. The deer, though it had turned its head toward her, had not truly seen her at all. But something in its gaze stopped Begryn. The innocent eyes of the animal stirred a memory from years before.

  She had been hunting orcs that had come to settle in the forests south of Núvodas, the elven region. Despite their great numbers, the green-skins had no chance of survival in the forests against the Sharpshooters. The massacre was swift and merciless, just as the order demanded.

  As she surveyed the aftermath, Begryn noticed tracks leading away from the slaughter. They were lighter—those of an orc woman, not bearing the weight of a man. Following them, she found the corpse of the green-skin, only steps away from a clearing, slumped against a tree trunk. She had seemingly tried to flee, but her wounds had claimed her life.

  Begryn was about to turn back when, in the clearing, she saw a small orc. The green-skin had not even reached adolescence. He saw Begryn perfectly, with innocent black eyes still wet with tears. His teeth chattered from the trembling of his jaw, shaken by fear. From what Begryn could tell, the mother had died trying to protect her son.

  “Sharr, umma-kranthok…” said the child.

  The elf did not understand, for she did not speak that dialect of the orc tongue. She drew back her bowstring. She did not want to end the life of that child, who still could not fully comprehend what was happening. He was to die by the will of her goddess—or so she told herself in that moment.

  The Sharpshooters could not waver, and yet there was Begryn, wrestling with her own conscience. What guilt did that little green-skin bear? Whom had he harmed in his few short years of life?

  She closed her eyes and, banishing every thought, released the arrow.

  When she opened them, she looked toward the clearing and saw the young orc with the same terrified grimace frozen on his face. Tears were still running down his rough cheeks. From his chest protruded the black-feathered shaft of Begryn’s arrow.

  She watched him let out one final breath before surrendering to eternal sleep. In that instant, the elf knew a part of her soul had died, tears welling and spilling from the corners of her eyes.

  Now, back in the present, she still stood before the small deer. Yet she was paralyzed, her breath ragged, until the sound of it startled the creature.

  “For Mistilanya…” she whispered to herself, dropping to a crouch to catch her breath. Her conscience still tormented her, even though more than two decades had passed since that night.

  “To hell with it. There will be no hunt tonight.”